Pickleballers

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Eight

Meg had not stopped fretting since Michael-Edmonds-squared had appeared yesterday. Her texts to Ethan went unread, her apologies and explanations unacknowledged. Annie did her best to divert her attention. Twice, they played on Marilyn’s nearby courts. While she played, Meg’s spirits lifted, but the instant she walked away from the court, her energy flagged. Without the closure of Ethan’s forgiveness, she found it difficult to paint, difficult to harness that creative momentum that had come naturally to her days ago.

Meg looked up from the newsprint sketch pad to find Annie refolding a T-shirt into a vacuum bag. Annie’s usual effervescence bubbled over with her newfound romance, but for Meg’s sake, she had tried to rein it in. Still, after deflating the shirt bag with a hand pump, she gave the plastic a satisfied pat and packed it into her suitcase. “I love vacuum seals,” she chirped. Quickly, she shot Meg an apologetic glance.

“Annie,” Meg suggested for the umpteenth time, “it’s okay to be happy around me. I’m happy for you.”

“You sure you’ll be okay staying here on your own? I can see if I can stay another day if you need.” But already their vacation had extended for more than a week, and Meg knew her friend would be needed back at the hospital come Monday.

“I’ll be fine. It’s just till I finish the fence.” She flipped through the pages of her sketch pad. The design was tight and the idea well-developed. All she needed was to pull herself out of this funk and get paint on pickets.

The mattress shifted when Annie plunked down beside Meg. “If you want to talk to him, go talk to him. Find him. Ask Marilyn where he is. Otherwise, you’re just sitting here, feeling sorry for yourself. What are you waiting for? A runway flagger?” She waved her arms at an imaginary plane. “ Now approaching Gate 17. Right this way. Find him. Maybe his phone is dead. He’s probably sitting around waiting for some word from you. You both could grow old together, waiting for signs.”

Easy for her to say. Within hours, Annie and Michael had bent toward each other like two plants, each one reaching for the sun; an uncomplicated and obvious attraction. “I was beginning to think I was imagining things,” Annie had admitted.

Annie’s discovery of the Edmonds twins had been a huge relief. Of course Annie gave Dave Edmonds her brand of pixie hell for going AWOL. Dave confessed with profuse apologies that because of his allegiances to Lakeview, his trip to Bainbridge to help his brother had been hush-hush. And while Dave Edmonds dug into the job of regaining Annie’s trust as a dependable partner, the real Michael Edmonds was head-over-laces infatuated with her.

“I’m gonna miss you,” Meg said.

“Me, too.” Annie circled her arm around Meg. She leaned her head on her friend’s shoulder. “Don’t forget about our meetup at the Founders Courts this afternoon, okay? One last set before I head back.”

“Okay. But you have to play left-handed.”

“I am left-handed.”

“Okay. But you have to play with a frying pan.”

From the corner of her eye, Meg watched Annie as she packed. Despite her attempts to convince herself otherwise, a pang of unexpected jealousy crept up on her. Annie had found her certainty so easily. Working on the fence was a step in the right direction. But it would be hard work to keep that energy going when she resumed her humdrum Seattle life.

Setting down the sketch pad, Meg stood. “I think I’m gonna take a walk and clear my head.”

“You do that.” Annie shot her a meaningful look. “I hope you find him.”

·····

Meg meandered down the pebbled beach and then onto the road lined with gingerbread homes. At last she reached the western hemlocks that towered above Marilyn’s cozy ranch house. Marilyn, the hub of the island’s wheel, would know how to find Ethan. There was no car in Marilyn’s driveway, and nobody answered the door, but it was a long walk back to the Outlook, and besides, it bummed Meg out to watch Annie pack. Better to hang out here. If Marilyn had left some pickleball equipment outside, Meg could occupy herself until she headed to the Founders Courts.

She cut in along the side yard and treaded carefully around the ubiquitous blackberries beside the house. A metal pail was tucked against the siding. She pulled the cobwebs off two worn balsa-wood beginner paddles. And at the bottom of the bucket, she spotted a 2Win tournament-quality pickleball.

Readying her stance, she eyed the opposite side of the court, tossed the ball, and swung. Her serve sailed over the net and rolled toward the wild yard. She collected the ball and tried again, this time from the other side. And then again. Her serve had come a long way from the tentative, off-target shots she’d made months ago when Annie and Rooster had begun coaching her. Now she hit with certainty, using muscle memory as a guide. She swung, and her ball landed hard and fast right at the baseline, flew off the court, and bounced deep into the woods.

Great. Now Marilyn’s ball was lost to the savage wilderness. Meg squinted at the blackberry brambles beside the courts. She took a dubious step off the asphalt and peered beneath the ferns, surveying the damp, coffee-colored earth. Scanning the foliage and weaving between the pines, she searched for a flash of neon green. Stumped, she stopped and stood, hands on hips. Where was that ball?

At last, she spotted something.

It was not her pickleball. Beyond the low salal shrubs, she noticed a mound of white stones. They must have been moved here from the shoreline—they were rounded by the sea. The center of the pile was topped with a wooden plaque. A child’s wobbly hand had seared a name into the grain. Pickles .

“Pickles!” Meg uttered, and bent down to examine the plaque. Seating herself on a fallen log beside the marker, Meg whispered “Pickles” again, and this time her voice was thick. In her imagination, she pictured Rascal, the sweet dog of her childhood: a mischievous, cream-colored poodle-terrier with boundless, cheery charisma. A lump clogged her throat: a twinge for the memory of Rascal, but also something deeper.

Pressing her lips together, she stared at the careful pile of rocks and felt the weight of those stones squeezing her chest. Unexpectedly, her eyes filled with emotion. A rogue tear threatened to tip over her lid, and once it fell, she saw no point in holding back. It felt good to cry, so she entered into it with gusto, enjoying the private luxury of feeling immensely sorry for herself.

She bent over, keening. She cried for the family who’d lost Pickles, and for ten-year-old Meg, who ached with missing Rascal. And for grown-up Meg, too. For these past months of keeping it together because she thought that was what she was supposed to do. Her gut squeezed like a towel being wrung out—she sobbed for the unfairness of her mom’s distance when she needed her mom sometimes, and was that so wrong? And what else? Surely she could think of more things to be sad about. There was the bullshit she had told herself when she’d given up painting and pretended it was Vance’s fault. Was it okay for her to be a little jealous of Annie, too, for her good fortune? Sure. She gave herself permission to cry over that, too.

The best, she saved for last. Because mostly, she felt really, really, really sad that she’d messed things up with a pickleball hottie whom she genuinely liked.

That final truth snapped the last holds of the dam. Giddy with release, she indulged in a real sob-fest. A pity party for the ages.

Minutes later, she finished it off with a few shuddering heaves. Her face hurt and her sleeves were wet. She was pretty sure her stomach muscles would be sore in the morning. But she felt absolutely refreshed. She had earned that cry, and she congratulated herself on taking full advantage of the opportunity.

Rational Meg resumed her rightful position in her brain. Healing took time. Life didn’t have instant solutions, no easy wins. She smiled sadly at the old Meg, the kind of gal who secretly fantasized about fairy-tale endings, who believed in the Golden Pickledrop, the easy win. The shot that would send the ball spinning along the top of the net and dropping into the kitchen at the opponent’s disbelieving toes. What a crock. If there was one thing to be sure of, it was that there were no sure things.

“Oh, Pickles,” she sighed. Her finger traced the curve of the smooth stones. “It doesn’t even exist, does it?” If only it were that simple, as if this immortal pup could point her way to success. Face it, she thought: finding the right path would not be easy.

Pickles answered, “It’s right here.”

Frozen in place, Meg stared at Pickles’s name plaque. Her heart rate thrummed, pulsing with an electric rhythm that resonated all the way into her thumbs. Could Pickles be right? Could the ungraspable solution live right here, inside of her?

“Meg?” The voice spoke again. “Is this yours?”

Slowly, she turned. It wasn’t Pickles’s voice talking. She knew that voice…

There he stood, holding a tournament-quality, neon green ball pinched between his fingers.

“Ethan!”

“I went back to the Outlook to look for you. This time Annie told me you’d probably be here. Are you looking for this?” He held her ball aloft.

“Oh, Ethan.” Pickles. Talking! Shaking her head at her imagination, she swiped at her puffy eyes. Dang! What she wouldn’t give for a couple of cold cucumber slices.

He stood close enough that she smelled woodsmoke on his shirt. Her heart raced. She wanted to fall into his embrace, wanted to tell him she had been a fool to doubt his kindness. With every ounce of her being, she hoped that he could accept her apology.

“Sorry I’ve been out of touch. I stayed at my mom’s hoping to hear back from you, but when I didn’t, I moved into the cabin for a couple of nights, trying to sort things out.” Ethan shuffled his feet. When his eyes left hers, her chest clenched. “I couldn’t understand why you…up and left like that.”

“Ethan. I—”

He raised a finger in the air, stopping her words. His eyes were smiling. He said, “But then…I heard you got quite a shock. Two Michael Edmondses.”

Shoving him playfully, Meg laughed with relief at the lightness in his voice. The last of the stones that had pressed on her chest crumbled, and bubbles of hope replaced them. “It was rather shocking.” Checking his reaction, she continued, “How did you hear about that?”

“Bainbridge is a small island.” He handed her the pickleball and gestured at the wooden plaque. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your discussion with Pickles.”

“We were having a lovely chat.”

“I see that.” He leaned toward the stones. “How’s tricks, Pickles?” Ethan paused, ear to the rocks. “What’s that? Yeah. Okay. Will do.”

“What did he say?”

“He says to tell you your shirt’s on inside out.”

Meg looked at her shoulder to see the seam of her shirt. Ethan shrugged. “Pickles suggests that I help you remedy the situation.” He lifted an eyebrow lewdly.

“I’m pretty sure I can handle it.” Turning her back to him, she raised the shirt over her shoulders and put it back on properly. When she swiveled back, Ethan’s wry smile marked his face.

“What are you grinning at?”

“Your bra is hooked all wonky, too.”

“I am not taking off my bra, if that’s what you’re after.”

He pointed at himself in mock offense. “Not me. Pickles. He was quite insistent.”

“Pickles should try a more subtle approach.” She grinned. Then her smile faded. “I’m so sorry, Ethan. I should have trusted you.” How vulnerable it must have felt for him: to finally be on steady ground, and then she’d up and left without explanation. “I’ll have to work on that.”

“We probably both have some work to do in the trust department,” he admitted.

“But anyhow, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have walked out like that, without any explanation.”

“No sorrys in pickleball.” He reached for her. “If we’re going to work it out, though, we’re going to have to spend a lot more time together.”

Tugging her toward him, he made a play for her lips. She pulled back, toying with him. “Aw, come on,” he pled, and went for her again. This time, she allowed it, tangling his lower lip with her tongue and then with a soft bite.

Suddenly, Meg pulled away. “I think Marilyn has one of those Ring cameras.”

Ethan spun toward the house and waved. “Hi, Marilyn.” He kissed Meg saucily and offered the camera a cheeky smirk.

“Okay. Show’s over,” he said, and with that, he scooped up the pair of beginner paddles. “Come on. Let’s knock it around a little.”

“Only if we can knock it around more later,” she teased, relief making her giddy.

He pinched her hips playfully. “I like the way you think.”

·····

Stance at the ready, Meg waited for Ethan’s return. The ball flew toward her, and Meg spent a millisecond too long wondering if it would make it over the net. Suddenly, zing! the ball curved over the net into the kitchen. It hit the ground and spun back toward the net.

She ran for it, cursing herself. Once again, Meg had left herself vulnerable to Ethan’s cutting backspin. She’d barely reached the ball when it bounced off the edge of her paddle and rolled toward the thorny blackberries that lined the court.

He jogged to retrieve it and waved her toward the net. “You keep letting me beat you.”

“You’re better than me. Of course you’re going to beat me.”

“Listen,” Ethan confided. “All you need is consistency. Focus. Just hit the ball over the net and keep it in bounds. You don’t have to do anything fancy. Let your opponent make the mistakes. Let me beat myself.”

She sighed. Tightening her grip on her paddle, she focused on the ball. This time, she watched her serve soar past Ethan.

“I thought I said don’t try to beat me. And then you aced me.”

“Yes, but I wasn’t trying . I just…did.”

A right-sided grin crept up his cheek. He walked toward the net. She met him there. His hand reached for her across the tape, and he pulled her hips toward his, crushing the net between them. He grazed her lips with his and she leaned in, hungry for his kiss.

“I missed you,” he said low in her ear.

Their lips connected. “I missed you, too.”

“I have an idea.”

“And what would that be?” she asked, innuendo lacing her question.

“Why don’t you and I team up? For Picklesmash.”

Drawing back to take him in, she asked, “Picklesmash?”

“Look. Rooster’s injured, and I—”

“But you already have a partner. What about Michael Edmonds?”

Ethan released an exasperated sigh. “Michael Edmonds is not you. You should play with me. We play well together. If you would consider it—”

She hesitated, not wanting to say no outright. And not ready to say yes. A concern had been building in her brain. Earning such a large cash prize was an unheard-of reward for winning a few rounds of oversized Ping-Pong. Since the day she’d learned that Bainbridge would compete in the tournament—a contest with a lot at stake—she had wondered: Why would Bainbridge need such a prize? The Founders Courts were already perfection: possibly the sleekest, smoothest, best-kept courts in the nation.

If she and Ethan were going to make a go of it, she needed to start practicing honest, open communication. And hadn’t they both wasted enough time not being frank with each other? She risked offending him, but she had to score a point for fairness. Inhaling, she braced herself.

“Listen. Can I ask you something? You and Marilyn and the whole Bainbridge crew. Don’t you think it’s a little…unnecessary? To train your league and try to win all that cash when you guys already have, like, the nicest courts in the Pacific Northwest? Why take that prize money away from a team that might need, for example, new courts?”

“Yeah.” He nodded amiably. “Yeah. I can see how you could see it that way. But we’re not planning to spend the prize money on our courts. We want to win so we can donate it all to charity. That’s the project that Marilyn’s been spearheading for the past few weeks. We’ve been researching worthy charities, and then voting on where the donations should go. If we win.”

If not for splinters, Meg would have thunked her head against the balsa-wood paddle. Charity! All this time Meg had imagined that her quest to help Lakeview gain a fancy, smooth-surfaced court was a noble one. And here was Bainbridge, playing for the good of others. What a knucklehead she was.

Ethan continued. “Marilyn wants the funds to go to one of the pickleball recycling campaigns. I like the idea, but I’m partial to splitting the winnings for different sports charities. There are some great ones out there that donate equipment to kids in need or provide opportunities for people with disabilities. One that I like sets up sports leagues in divided neighborhoods and helps teens unite by teaming up together instead of ganging up against each other. There are even pickleball training camps popping up for kids who could benefit from some outdoor fun.”

“Huh.” She gathered her thoughts, balancing this new info with her loyalties. “Don’t get me wrong. All of those are great causes.” But she could feel the shift within her, an understanding that Ethan’s intentions—restoring the wetlands, supporting young athletes—were well-founded. But there was still the issue of her home courts, and her allegiances tugged at her. “I guess I just feel bad. I mean, if Lakeview wins, they still couldn’t build a dedicated space. Even if the money came through, where would all those players—” Out of the corner of her eye, she caught him smiling. “What?” she asked. “What are you smiling about?”

“Let’s just say I made some calls and I’ve got something in the works. Nothing solid. But a possible, repurpose-able space. If Lakeview can find the funds, I can help find a place you can put your courts.”

The thoughtful gesture pushed her one foot closer into Ethan’s court. Maybe her home team would find a place to land after all. And at least the possibility made for a fair fight, especially since Lakeview had handed off her shot at the beginners’ spot to her ex.

And helping disadvantaged teens. Well, that was a no-brainer. Facing off against Vance and édith would be the bonus. She had enough L ’s on her scorecard. She wanted a W in her column. And if it took every ounce of luck and skill she could muster, she would earn it on the pickleball court.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll partner with you.”

He smiled with his whole face. “You will? You will? That’s great.” Exuberant, he took her hands and pulled her close. “That is so great. I’ll work it out with Michael. I’m telling you he’ll be happy about it; trust me. He never wanted to play in a tournament. He was only trying to help Marilyn and the team—”

Meg planted her lips on his. “Less talking. More kissing.”

He muttered something into her mouth.

“What?”

“Pickles approves.”

She smacked him hard on the chest.

“Mm. I like it,” he whispered into her neck. Their paddles clattered to the pavement.

·····

After a pleasant make-out session, Ring camera be damned, they headed to the Founders Courts to see Annie off. Ethan borrowed a pair of paddles from the doghouse supply shed, beneath a bone-shaped sign reading Pickles . On the near court, the real Michael Edmonds sat beside Annie on the bench. Their fingers were intertwined, and their gazes were so glued to each other that their eyeballs were practically touching.

Ethan slung a friendly arm around Michael’s shoulder. “Hey, buddy. I hear love is in the air.”

Michael Edmonds turned. “Ethan! I’m glad you’re here.” Michael’s expression was ringed with something unreadable, somewhere between apologetic and nervous. “I’ve been meaning to get in touch with you.”

“Yeah. We should talk. About the tournament…”

Michael winced.

“What would you think if Meg here filled in for the beginners’ slot for Bainbridge?”

“Do you mean she would partner with me?” Michael asked.

Hesitating, Ethan admitted, “No. With me.” Brimming with tension, Meg waited.

“So, Meg would take my spot?”

Ethan’s slow nod confirmed it. Michael looked from Meg to Ethan and back again.

“Well, thank heaven for small miracles. That’s exactly what I was going to ask you.” He clapped Ethan on the back. “Nothing worse than being publicly humiliated in front of a crowd of strangers.”

“Outstanding,” Ethan said. “I figured you’d be all right with it.”

Bainbridge’s Michael Edmonds gave a long, relieved exhale. “Don’t get me wrong. I do want to improve my game. But I’m not ready for a tournament.” His gaze roamed back to Annie, whose cheeks were fresh with color. “Maybe all I need is a patient teacher.”

“Or a doctor teacher.” Annie giggled. “Get it? I’m a doctor.” To his credit, the real Michael cracked a goofy grin.

From the courts where he was practicing his serve, Dave Edmonds said, “This is painful. I feel like I’m in a cable special. Are we gonna play or what?”

Meg nodded, and a thrill traveled up her arm when Ethan looped a pinkie finger through hers and led her to their side of the net.

Michael Edmonds sat on a sideline picnic bench, one lean leg crossed over his knee as he watched the two teams practice. His attention rarely left Annie, who partnered with Dave and played as well as ever despite the distraction.

Meg played hard, pushing herself. Playing “up” against a stronger team raised her accuracy and consistency. Annie and Dave whupped them 11–4, although at least one of those four points was earned when Annie hit a ball out-of-bounds on purpose, just so she could retrieve it from beneath Michael’s bench.

During the second game, Meg noticed her confidence building. Her hits were softer, more directed. By the fifth game she was in the groove. Meg and Ethan found themselves playing it out until they squeaked past their opponents with a win by two points at 13–11.

Dave Edmonds held a hand up in a gesture of defeat. “All right. I’ll admit it. You two play well together,” he remarked, reaching over the net to tap paddles. Annie and Dave had taken it easy on them; that was obvious. But it was a solid game all the same.

“That was fun, wasn’t it?” Ethan asked, gazing at Meg in a way that made her insides all squiggly. Grinning, Meg nodded her agreement. Because it was fun. And that was the point.